How Josie Saved Me

There’s a strange bond between a man and his machine, especially when that machine is as old and temperamental as Josie, my 1982 VW Vanagon. She’s not just metal and moving parts; she’s a companion, one who carries with her the quirks and mysteries of time. Machines like Josie don’t simply break down—they communicate, albeit in roundabout and sometimes baffling ways. The longer you live with them, the more you start to understand their language, even if that understanding comes slowly, through moments of frustration and confusion.

It started innocently enough. I was at a stop, foot on the clutch, and without warning, the windshield wipers turned themselves on, slicing across the glass in the bright sunlight. No rain, not a cloud in the sky—just Josie, deciding that the day needed a little more movement. It wasn’t just a fluke, either. A few bumps in the road later, and the wipers were back at it, this time refusing to quit for the next 13 miles, no matter what I did. It was like she was playing a joke, reminding me that, despite my best efforts to keep her in working order, she had a mind of her own.

I’ll admit, I was baffled. The wipers had no business doing what they did, and I had no earthly clue why. So, I did what any sensible man would do: I called Steve. Steve knows Josie’s breed well—he’s got an ‘82 VW van himself. When I explained the problem, Steve didn’t have a definite answer. But in the way that only another Vanagon owner could, he suggested I check under the dash, near where the clutch entered the cab, for any loose wires. I had no idea what I was looking for, but when a man suggests something, you take it seriously.

Josie, in her quirky, roundabout way, had led me to the real issue.

Armed with a halogen flashlight, I twisted my body in ways that would make a yogi proud and peered up under the dash. And here’s where things took an unexpected turn. I wasn’t even looking in the right spot, but my eye caught something out of place—the base of the steering wheel was wet. It didn’t make sense at first, until I realized that it wasn’t water—it was brake fluid. Josie, in her quirky, roundabout way, had led me to the real issue.

On further inspection, I found that the brake fluid reservoir was nearly empty, barely hanging above the “MIN” line. Had it dropped any further, I’d have been in danger of driving without brakes. Josie’s wiper freak-out had drawn my attention to a life-threatening problem I hadn’t even known existed. It was as if she knew.

Now, a skeptic might call it coincidence. But anyone who’s spent time with an old machine like Josie knows that these things happen too often to be purely random. Machines, especially ones that have seen as much road as Josie, seem to develop a soul of sorts. They have their ways of telling you when something’s wrong, though they may do it indirectly. They’ll throw a tantrum, like Josie’s wipers, when they want attention. And, just as often, they’ll lead you to discover something you wouldn’t have found on your own.

I filled up the brake fluid reservoir that day and gave Josie a pat on the dash, a silent thanks for watching out for me in her own way. If not for her erratic behavior, I might have never thought to check the brake fluid, and who knows what kind of trouble I would’ve been in then. It’s a strange thing, this relationship between man and machine. We like to think we’re the masters, that we’re in control, but there are moments when the machine reminds us that it, too, has a voice—and that sometimes, we’d do well to listen.